


The Only Truth We Know

by Nottodaylogic (MandaloreArtist), Spiesbian



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Discussion of Death, Jasper In Deadland AU, M/M, Mythology Mash Up, Orpheus and Eurydice Remix, and also the meaning of life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MandaloreArtist/pseuds/Nottodaylogic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiesbian/pseuds/Spiesbian
Summary: Owen died. Curt knows that much. But he's going to (literally) dive straight into the afterlife and drag him back if he has to. If only things were actually that simple...Or: Jasper in Deadland AU
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	The Only Truth We Know

_“Three Cs and an F.”_

_“You haven’t shown up to school in two days”_

_“Stay away from my son!”_

_“Owen? Really? He’s way out of your league.”_

_“Just one pill!”_

_“I’ve given you my life for seventeen years, and now I want a life of my own!”_

_CURT!_

Curt started at the sound of his alarm, tangling in the sheets and tumbling to the floor. “Shit!” Air rushed out of his lungs as he landed on something hard. Probably his stack of unused textbooks. He took a few seconds to catch his breath. Another bad dream. “Owen? Are you awake?”

He paused, waiting for an answer. Nothing. Grumbling, he pulled himself up to his feet. Curt glanced at the bed. Empty, both from the sheets he had pulled off and the person who had been beside him.

Hah. Funny. Curt was laughing because it was _funny._

“Owen?” He called into the empty house, feeling like a moron. No response—not even from his father, who, now that he thought about it, had probably passed out on the couch to sleep off the drugs he’d hidden from the police. _Pathetic._ If Curt were honest, he’d say he wasn’t sure whether he meant that about himself or his father. 

Curt started looking around for any trace of the boy. There were plenty, of course—comic books strewn on the floor, the leather jacket Owen had been wearing the day before, photos and drawings and gifts from years ago—but not the kind he wanted. Nothing to tell Curt where he‘d gone.

 _Did he leave?_ He groaned, and didn’t feel sad. He _didn’t._ He’d just... thought Owen had said all… _that…_ for a reason.

_Yeah, and that reason was to make you suffer._

_Buzz!_ Curt glanced at his phone, heart leaping. Nothing important, probably a spam email. Dammit. He scrolled through his messages, bored yet somehow still anxious. The only one who ever texted him was Owen and after last night... 

_MISSED CALL FROM “OWEN COWARD”_

Oh.

_NEW VOICEMAIL._

He turned the volume up and opened it, holding it to his ear to get a better listen.

 _“Hey, lo—oh.”_ Owen laughed nervously before continuing. _“I probably shouldn’t call you that until we talk about this, huh? Blimey, I wish you’d have picked up. Anyways, Curt, I know this is different and weird and… oh god, I never even said it was me, did I? It's Owen. But you knew that, didn’t you? Oh, I’m running out of time before you wake up, so I’ll get right to the point, shall I? I’m going to jump.” A pause. “The cliff, I’m scared of it. For good reason, mind you. But I’ll jump, to prove to you we can do things that are… scary and frightening and difficult. See you there.”_

_Click._

Christ, the cliff? Curt glanced out the window at the trees whipping around and rustling outside. It probably wasn't all that safe to go outside. But Owen had said he’d wanted to talk, and honestly? Curt might have wanted that a little too. Just to get things straightened out.

* * *

The wind whistled all around Curt, making a hollow kind of howling noise, as if out of a horror movie. A feeling of foreboding settled down over him, and he shivered at its cold weight. A chill settled into his bones now, growing stronger by the moment. The wind chill helped nothing. His hoodie hadn’t turned out to be _nearly_ enough to keep away the cold. 

Whatever. Every step he took brought him closer to the cliff, and that was all that mattered. Curt could handle a little bad weather in exchange for his best and only friend.

“Owen?” The trees before the cliff were packed more tightly together than anywhere else he’d seen them, and, honestly, he didn’t know whether his voice could even travel past them. He pushed for the edge, following the path he’d walked a million times before. “I’m here, like you wanted! Listen, Owen, you need to know—you deserve so much more than me, and alright, you won’t believe it, but I know how it’ll end. It always ends like—oh no.” 

There was no one there. 

Curt ran for the edge and peered over. His pulse spiked. “Owen?!” His voice cracked with desperation. His next call stuck in his throat as he caught sight of something floating in the water. “Oh my—hold on! I'm coming!” Curt looked back to see if there was someone, _anyone_ there to help. It wouldn't have mattered anyways.

Curt backed up a few steps, then ran forward and dove off the side of the cliff. The wind no longer whistled, but sang—no; howled, _screaming_ —in his ears.

He braced himself, ready to hit the water and swim, swim for Owen, unable to do anything but pray it wasn’t too late. 

Curt hit the lake surface, but there was no sound, no feeling. There wasn’t even a splash. He was just floating in darkness. Or rather, falling in darkness.

“What the hell?!” Curt yelled into the void. “What’s going on!?”

Several figures appeared from the shadows, and his heart leapt into his throat. None of them seemed shaken by the situation gravity was taking further and further. They didn’t even seem to plunge like Curt; instead, they were almost drifting gently down, hovering static in front of him. Curt reached out for one, then realized they each had a red and black leather jacket clutched in their hands.

“You’re falling, Curt,” one said. 

_No duh._ “Where is Owen?”

“We _are_ Owen.” With that, Curt realized they were. They were all Owen but… he couldn’t seem to remember what he looked like, even staring directly at them. 

Curt started panicking. 

“What’s going on?!” It didn’t come out right, it was too hard to breathe. 

“You’ll now see your most important memories.” The Not-Owen’s voice reverberated in the—cavern? Tunnel? What even was this place?—as they spoke. The rustling of the wind didn’t so much as ruffle their hair. They slipped coolly into the leather jacket.

Curt startled at a sudden flash of light, followed by the sound of a school bell; and he was standing in the school, where Curt had first met Owen.

_“What’s your name? Sorry, I’m Curt. I don’t have friends. Just moved here, you know how it is.”_

_“It’s Owen. Do you always introduce yourself with your lack of social standing?”_

_“Geez, I’m just trying to talk to you.”_

_He laughed, a sound that sent a rush of fresh air whisking around them. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. You’re a bit weird, but I kind of like you. Let’s do something tomorrow?”_

The pavement slipped out from under his feet and he was falling again.

“Stop it!” Curt screamed into the darkness. He hated this, hated going through these memories and tainting them. He couldn’t even be sure of his own memories, for even in his own mind, he couldn’t look Owen in the eyes. His face faded from his mind as soon as Curt turned away.

His feet hit the soft dirt of the cliff.

_“Owen, let’s jump!”_

_“I’m sorry?” Owen squinted at him, like he was proposing a suicide pact._

_“You heard me! You won’t die. It’s like thirty at _most,_ come on!”_

_“Nuh-uh. No way, old boy, I just can’t. I’ll stay right here. On the ground. Where it’s safe.”_

_“Scared?” Curt nudged him._

_“Yes, Curt. I have acrophobia.”_

_“Oh.” Beat. “Isn’t that about spiders?”_

_“No, love. That’s arachnophobia. It’s the fear of heights.”_

_“You know what? That actually explains a lot.”_

_“Well, what are you waiting for? Don’t stand here waiting for me to die of old age. Jump, Mr. Amazing At Everything.”_

_“You're right, I am.”_

_“Oh, just jump already, you fucking Gryffindor.”_

_He did._

_He hit the water with a splash._

_Weightless…_

Then there was no water, only empty air. Falling again, surrounded by void and the eyes of blurred figures.

“Please,” Curt begged, voice hoarse and desperate. “Let us go.” 

The only reply was the laughing of the whirlwind around him.

Again, he landed, this time in his own bed. Last night. If it weren’t a memory, Curt would have frozen right where he was.

 _“God, Curt, you’re incredible.” Owen’s thumb caressed his cheek. His eyes were so, so soft, and his expression was so open, and it_ hurt. __

_“No, I’m not. I can’t do this.”_

_“It’s okay. I’m still here.” His other hand went to tangle fingers with Curt’s. “I’m not going anywhere. We can do this right. Someone has to do it, why not us?”_

_Owen might as well have reached right into Curt’s chest and pulled his heart right out._

_“I won’t look back if you don’t,” Owen whispered._

_Curt shook his head. “No looking back.”_

He was yanked right out of the memory with so much force it could almost be described as violent. The gale around him howled louder than ever. 

“But you couldn’t love him.” The Owens chorused.

_No._

“And now it’s too late.”

_Stop!_

“What’s done cannot be undone.”

Curt couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. A cacophony of _your fault, your fault, your fault_ rang in his head. Or maybe something else was saying it out loud, he couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

“I’m gonna find him!” Curt yelled. Silence fell like an axe.

_“Good luck.”_

A jolt rushed through his body as he plummeted into the water, for real this time. His consciousness slowly faded as he drifted away, deeper and deeper, until there was nothing at all.

* * *

“Hey.” Through the haze, Curt felt something patting his cheek. “Come on now! Wake up!” 

Curt groaned, opening his eyes bit by bit. Some guy with curly hair was leaning over him. He swiped the guy’s hand away. “Ugh… where am I?”

“Why, where do you _think_? You’re in Deadland, of course!”

He blinked. “I’m sorry, for a moment I could have sworn you said I was dead.”

“That’s right, sir!” The guy nodded energetically before standing back up and grabbing the oars. They were on a large, canoe-like boat, which rocked dangerously with every movement. It was remarkably unstable for a vessel so LARGE. They seemed to be floating down an underground river, judging by the stalactites hanging above them. “They call me The Informant, ‘cause I inform people all about it. You are, well, dead. There you go.”

He blinked. _Excuse me?_ “...my head hurts.”

“Here, take some water.” 

Curt took one sip, then splashed the rest onto his face. It was cold, although quite chalky in taste and a bit too milky in color for what would be considered drinkable. “I’m not dead.”

“That’s what they all say, sir.” The Informant gestured behind him. “That’s the boatman, by the way.”

Curt looked over his shoulders, catching a glimpse of a man whose skin appeared to decay before his eyes. Curt scrambled backwards. “What the hell?!”

The Informant laughed, and was he _mocking_ Curt?! “Oh, if you think _this guy_ is scary, wait until you see the pup. I play Go Fish with this softy.”

The boatman made the clicking noise of bones. _If someone doesn’t get this guy a coffin, they’re going to need one for_ me.

“Alright, then.” The Informant pulled out a clipboard. “Let’s get you all checked in. Case Number… Sigma J… Theta Q two seven one four.”

“Look, did Owen put you up to this?” Curt asked, desperation causing his voice to crack. Not embarrassing at _all_. “He’s always trying to fuck with me. Like, he didn’t really jump off the cliff, and now he’s in my room raiding all my shit and stealing my shirts because apparently he can’t just get his own. You’re some boat tour company and he paid you to pick me up, right? It’s kind of cold down here for springtime though…”

_Springtime, springtime, springtime…_

Curt looked around. Something had repeated him, like an echo, but it didn’t _sound_ like his voice. “Is the river talking…?”

_Talking, talking, talking…_

“Who is saying that?” He leaned over the side of the boat. “Stop repeating me!”

_Peating me, peating me, peating me…_

“Chill out, kid, it’s just the river.”

 _“Just_ the river?! Rivers aren’t supposed to talk!” Curt resisted the urge to flip off the freaky river.

“It’s the river Lethe, of course it talks!” 

He didn’t know how to respond to that. 

The Lethe’s water ran cloudy and dark as it brought the boat slowly towards the shore. The waves were far choppier than any river Curt had ever seen. A particularly nasty swell crashed against the side, showering him with hundreds of shockingly cold droplets. His stomach tried more desperately to jump out of his throat with every rock of the ferry.

After a short while, the boat pulled up to a rotting wooden dock, with paint chipping and nails that threatened to stab right through his shoes if he wasn’t careful. Curt didn’t pay much attention, though, not even as he stepped up onto its remarkably solid surface. 

Because right in front of him was an organized mass of people, all in line, heading towards a humongous dog. 

With three heads.

“What is _that?”_ Curt asked.

 _“That,”_ The Informant said in an overly dramatic tone, “is Cerberus.” He clapped Curt’s shoulder. “Careful, they’re a little touchy. Good luck!”

“You’re not seriously going to leave me alone with that—!” Curt turned to address The Informant, but he was already gone. “...thing.”

He sighed and started shouldering his way through the queue of people milling around him. Cerberus sniffed at each person as they passed, eating paperwork from their hands. _What the actual hell._ He was staring so intently at the dog that he forgot momentarily what he was doing and accidentally bumped into someone on his way through.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Curt started to apologize, then realized they were wearing a red and black leather jacket. He grabbed the sleeve. “Hey! Give me that!”

“Get off of me!” They tried to pull away from Curt. “Some guy gave it to me!”

“Where’d he go?!”

“Through the gates to Deadland. Like everyone else, weirdo!”

Curt looked back at Cerberus. _Dammit_. “Well, give me back the jacket! He’s my friend and I know he wouldn’t just _give it away!_ ”

“Fine, Jesus!” They slipped off the jacket and shoved it into Curt’s chest, storming away.

Curt held it in his arms for a while, willing his heart to slow down. Okay, he had one more clue to find Owen. He started pushing through the crowd with a new fervor, ignoring the yells and complaints left in his wake. Eventually he made his way to the front.

“Cause of death?” The head in the middle growled. The left head was chewing on a bone which looked the right size to have come from some long-extinct creature. He tried not to stare too much. 

“Oh, uh…” Curt fumbled to come up with something decent. “You know when someone, like, leaves something slippery on the floor and then you crack your head on the kitchen count—”

 _”CAUSE OF DEATH?”_ The right head barked. Curt stepped back.

“Haha, you got me,” He laughed nervously. “I’m not actually dead, I’m still alive.”

Suddenly, Cerberus was sniffing him up and down. The dog was so big Curt had to brace himself to keep from falling over. 

“He _is_ alive!” The left head cried. 

“Yeah, that’s what I said—”

Another howled in confused rage. “How can this be?!” 

“I don’t know, but I have to find my—”

“Perhaps, brothers, _this_ is how we find out what life is!” Cerberus barked triumphantly. “We can eat him!”

“What?!” Curt took several steps back. “Okay, nononono, that’s enough of that! I’ll be dead if you eat me, and then—” He stopped. Okay. Time to put up or shut up. When he spoke again, his voice held the shaky confidence of a man who thinks he can evade death. “What is life? I’ll tell you what life is.” 

The three heads looked at him, as if standing at attention.

“Life is filled with awful, selfish people, who live in their own self-interests until they die.” Curt spread his arms. “Happy?”

Not one of Cerberus’s heads looked even remotely happy.

“Look,” Curt continued, “I’ve only ever known one person who did anything but whine about their pitiful lives. My mom left because she thought she’d wasted hers, and didn’t even care about the kid and husband she left behind. My excuse for a dad takes as many pills as he likes in order to forget how to feel. He’ll probably take too many sometime soon, and then that’ll be the end of him and all his lost dreams.” He laughed, wet and choked. “Good riddance. I’m no better. No one’s any better.” 

The middle head tilted to the side. “Then wouldn’t you say you’re in the right place?”

“I’m getting to that.” Curt blinked, surprised to find tears there. He wiped them away before meeting the middle head’s eyes. “You see, nobody cares about anyone but themselves—except for Owen.”

“Go on.”

Curt closed his eyes. He couldn’t picture his best friend, but he could damn well try. “Owen told me life is worth it. He says that life means more than just dying, y’know?” He laughed. “Stupid, but that’s Owen for you.”

One of the heads nudged Curt with its nose. “How sad. Humans spend all that time for something so painful.”

“Yea, well…” He swallowed. “Yea.”

“You may enter the gate, but mark this,” the middle head spoke in a far more serious growl. “Deadland is a place where you forget life. Even you will, eventually. If you linger too long, you’ll join the dead forever. You may now enter.”

“Uh, okay, so do I just—?”

“ENTER!”

“Geez, okay!” Curt started walking through the gate. 

Behind him, the heads started discussing why life existed if it was all just pointless anyway.

_I wonder that every day of my life, Cerberus._

* * *

_“Welcome to City Circle,”_ a loudspeaker declared.

The city was no less impressive once he entered. The sky was still a perfect blue, despite being underground. It was crowded and noisy with excitement and buzzing. The buildings seemed to never end, and unlike other cities he’d been in, it didn’t smell like smoke. 

It was almost beautiful.

Still, it was overwhelming, and Curt tried to keep his arms to himself. Everyone here was technically dead, and he didn’t want to find out whether they were more like corpses or people. 

And there were people everywhere—frequenting the shops, walking the streets, chatting louder than strictly necessary. It was strangely peaceful, for a place called Deadland.

Curt felt sick. 

He pulled the jacket closer around himself to try and steady his racing thoughts. Everything was so loud, not just in his ears, but the colors were neon and bright and felt like a punch to the face. Each little movement in the corner of his eye made him flinch. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. 

“Hey, watch it!” One man yelled as Curt walked right into him. He couldn’t even apologize as his heart leapt into his throat. The man continued in bewilderment, “Agnes?! What are you doing—”

“Er, sorry,” Curt stammered before backing away quickly. There were _so many people,_ all walking in different directions and talking loudly, and it was _just so much_. He stumbled in the path of another woman who cried out at his sudden touch. He ran away from the people with his hands clamped over his ears.

Eventually he was able to find a small island, free of traffic. The relief was immediate, but small. He curled in on himself, taking shaky breaths of stale air. There was an awful taste in his mouth from the water earlier that had, if anything, only increased overtime. 

This place _sucked._

“And if you’ll follow me,” a particularly loud voice said, growing steadily louder as the speaker kept talking, “our last brochure-advertised stop is over there; it’s the Gates of Deadland, guarded as always by the three heads of Cerberus. Get a good look—you probably didn’t when you came in. I’d tell you not to stare, but really, what can he do to you besides bite your head off? You’re already dead!”

A group of people walked quickly over and surrounded him with their _oohs_ and _aahs._ He blinked. _What the hell?_ He didn’t get it until they started taking pictures of the ginormous dog. 

Somehow Curt had gotten caught in a _tour group._

_I don’t have time for this!_ He went to push away from the crowd, but then stopped himself. This was probably good, right? Blend in with all the newbies? 

The tour guide clapped. “Alright, it’s your lucky day because now we’ve gotten to the cool shit that didn't make the brochure! This part is of course free, but tips are highly appreciated! And that does mean cold hard cash, folks, not a blow job behind the fast food joint down the road!” He glared pointedly at the guy standing next to Curt.

Said guy cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

At least Curt’s stupid questions wouldn’t be the only ones, apparently. 

The tour guide went back to smiling brightly. “To the right we have the clocktower!” The crowd chattered around Curt. “The hands don’t tell the hour, because time has no meaning! Why keep track of something with no meaning, eh?”

Curt raised his hand. “Um, excuse me…?”

He pointed at him. “Yes, the _Glee_ cast member looking man in the back!”

“Yea, uhh, Mister…” Curt tried to read his nametag, but there were too many people in the way.

“Michael.”

“Okay, Michael. I’m looking for my friend?” Curt started edging around the tourists so he could stand in front of him. “I’m alive, and I think he is too, we’re not really supposed to be here?”

Michael’s smile became a little bit more strained. “I’m working right now.” 

_“Please,_ I need to find him—!” He reached out and grabbed Michael’s arm.

Michael jumped back, ripping his arm out of Curt’s grasp. “Don’t— _AGH!_ Where did _he_ come from?!”

Curt followed where he was looking, only finding empty space. “Where did _who_ come from?” 

“Are you insa—oh. Nobody. It must be a memory…” Michael snapped back, a disgusted look on his face. “When you touched me you made me remember something from my life. I saw my boyfriend, or something… _ugh.”_ He didn’t look all too happy with that. 

Must have been a shitty boyfriend.

“Well, can you help me?” Curt asked.

“Yea, yea, sure.” Michael pulled a pamphlet from his pocket, wrinkled from where he’d been holding it harder than strictly necessary. “Have a map. Goodbye.”

“Wait!” Curt tried to chase after him as Michael walked away, but tourists started hemming him in from both sides.

“You’re Alive?” A woman crooned. 

“I guess?”

“Can I get a picture?” One man asked. “I’ve never seen somebody _alive_ before!”

Curt’s body tried to kick into panic mode. He had to physically fight to keep himself from hyperventilating. “I’ve really got to go.”

“Come on, one selfie?”

He booked it away from the crazy tour group.

* * *

It was all a haze of walking and calling out for Owen until Beanietown.

Curt had followed the alleyways to a secluded bar. The sign read _The Salty Fish from Down Under_ , which sounded downright awful but it didn’t have many people so in he went.

The first thing he noticed was that it was just as hyper and flashy as the rest of Deadland.

The second thing he noticed was the beanie one of the patrons at a table was wearing. It had a pattern of blues, purples, and pinks. It also looked way too familiar.

A picture of Owen in the same hat flashed in his head.

Curt ran forward to wrestle it from the dead guy. “His—that’s his beanie!” 

“No, it’s—”

“Give it!” Curt grabbed it right off their head. The person gaped at him but huffed and stormed off shortly after. He couldn’t even feel relieved. His head hurt… or maybe that was just the boy moving to sit next to him.

“Alive Boy,” Michael greeted.

“Tour Boy,” Curt shot back. “Nice to see you again. Thanks for the shitty map.”

“Yea, well, I do my best.” He sat next to Curt. “Find that guy of yours?”

“No, I—” Curt stopped, sucking in a deep breath as another metaphorical nail drove into his brain. “My head is killing me, it’s been hard to focus.”

“I know just what you need.” Michael pulled a plastic water bottle out. Where the fuck had that been? “Drink up.”

He tossed it to Curt. The headache almost made him miss it, but he managed to fumble and hold it to his chest. “What is it?”

“Water from the river Lethe. You’re gonna have to get used to it if you stick around, it’s the only kind we’ve got down here.”

Curt twisted off the cap and downed it. Sure enough, the headache faded enough so he could at least see straight. The water left an awful, sadly familiar, taste in his mouth. “Why is it so chalky?”

“I’m not a geologist.” Michael rested his chin in his hand. “You know, I’ve never met someone _Alive_ before. You’re so dangerous.”

Michael had this weird sort of smirk on his face as he stared intently at Curt, looking him up and down as if he were a dessert table or some kind of science experiment. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Oh, no reason.”

Curt averted his eyes. “Yeesh, you’re making me feel like a piece of meat.”

“Well, technically, you are.” He poked Curt in the chest. “You’re Alive. Have a body and everything.” 

“You know what I meant.”

“Oh, sod off, it’s not like I’ve pestered you to _touch me, Curt-In-Deadland,_ or to _let me take a selfie, Curt-In-Deadland.”_

“Don’t call me that!” Curt hugged his arms to his chest. “I just need to find Owen and get out.”

“What’s with this _‘Owen’_ anyways?” Michael snorted. Funny, Curt thought. He almost sounded jealous. “Is he like some kind of massive hottie or something?”

Curt _didn’t blush._ If he did, it would have been out of embarrassment. Or frustration. Nothing else. “No, he's my best friend.” 

“So, you have a crush on him?”

“No!”

“He’s your straight best friend.”

“No—what makes you think _I’m_ the gay best friend?”

“You look like you’d be on Glee. Also, I have a pretty good gaydar. I think.” Michael leaned in even closer. Jesus, how far was he gonna go? “Besides, most people don’t just hop down to Deadland because of their ‘best friend.’ Orpheus and Eurydice were a bit more than friends with benefits.”

 _Friends with benefits._ Oh, lord, Curt was going to pass out in the middle of this fucking bar. “It was one time!”

“One time…? You—oh. Oh, holy _shit.”_ Michael grinned. “You _were_ fucking!”

“Like I said, it was one time, and it didn’t mean anything, and I’m…” He paused to regain composure. “I’m not talking about it with you!”

“Aw, come on, Curt! My old buddy, my old pal!” Michael pouted. “Where’s the gossip? There’s never anything _good_ down here, it’s so _dead._ Socially, I mean.”

“Fine.” Curt slammed his hand down on the surface of the bar. “You want to know what happened? Nothing. Owen is perfect, with a perfect life, with parents who don’t cheat on each other and don’t beg their only son for pills he doesn’t have, and most of all, don’t _leave_. I’d be damned if I let him love me. How could he say that?! How, when he’s—he’s— _ugh!”_ Curt gripped his head in his hands. His head _hurt so, so fucking badly,_ and it was about four seconds from _killing him—_

“Whoa, hey, are you alright?” 

Curt didn’t respond. He could barely even think. “Owen’s too good for anyone, let alone a guy like me who freezes up in panic attacks almost every day. Every—every morning, I go to the cliff and dive. It’s the best part of my day. Or was it waterskiing? No, I was right. Owen hates it, says I’ll break my neck someday, but today he… he jumped in?” Curt’s leg started bouncing violently. “It’s called… called… I can’t remember. What was the name of that stupid cliff?”

“Hey, hey, calm down, love.” Michael sounded remarkably calm, although a bit taken aback. _How can he be calm?_

So Curt whirled on him. “Why can’t I remember his parents? What he used to call me? Even what he _looks like?!”_

Michael stared at him as if he were insane, yet almost a little sympathetically. “Because you’re Forgetting.”

“Yeah yeah, I know, but I shouldn’t be forgetting!”

“No, Forgetting. Capitalized.” Michael rolled his eyes, like one would do to a child asking a stupid question. “It’s a whole process that starts when you die.”

“But I’m not de—”

“Yeah, I know, you’re special and Alive and _we know_. Still happens when you’re down here.”

“How does it work?”

Michael shrugs. “Well, first you die.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t interrupt.” Michael numbered items off on his fingers as he spoke. “You fall into the Lethe, then pay to get onto the ferry, like everyone else. And then, well, you find yourself losing your thoughts easier than normal. You get a headache. The next step, you start speaking in Portuguese.”

Curt blinked. “...I’m sorry? I think I mishea—”

“You didn’t.”

“But—”

“Don’t ask. No one knows why. After that, small details start to blur, then your name goes, then your family and friends. With time, well. You’ve forgotten that you ever cared about Forgetting.” 

Michael didn’t seem nearly worried enough about this. _You mean I’ll forget Owen?_ “But don’t they try to stop it?”

“Of course. It’s really quite tragic, honestly. Some people might even try writing things down—the good parts, of course. But at the end, well.” He laughed—a thoughtless, cruel thing, not at all like Owen’s, which he still couldn’t fully recall. “You find it’s all… okay. Life was only a dream, and Death is all that really matters, in the end. You burn the notebook, like I did.”

“And then?”

A small smile bloomed on Michael’s face, the least harsh expression Curt had seen on his features. “You start again.”

Despite the ease in Michael’s face, Curt couldn’t smile back. _I can’t start again. Owen needs me._

_I won’t leave him down here._

_I won’t fail him again._


End file.
